A Moment
by corny sloth
Summary: It starts with an occasional glance from across the table during meals, a brush of his foot against yours under the table, the electric shock when his hand brushes yours during rounds. Next thing you know, you’re in his bed again. LilyJames.


**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter, names, characters and indicia are solely JK Rowling's. I do not take credit for any thing you recognize in this story.

**A Moment.**

You think your hatred all started out when you first laid eyes on him. You were still young, barely over eleven, and the opposite sex wasn't nearly as interesting as it is at seventeen.

He was that annoying sod Potter with the messy hair and dorky glasses that never missed a chance to pull on your ponytail. He was lanky and awkward but as the years went by and he joined the Gryffindor Quidditch team, he grew popular and everyone simply _adored_ him.

_You_ didn't. You still don't.

He was talented in practically everything without effort, he was sharp and bright, he was witty and chivalrous with everyone but you.

You often wondered why that was, but never dwelled on it long, because you didn't deem him worth your time and energy.

You couldn't help but admire him though, even by afar. He was brilliant and you envied him desperately for passing in flying colors _every single time, _while you spent days and nights studying to be the best.

By Fourth Year, you were both known to be sworn enemies. Everyone feared being in a ten foot radius of the two of you when you had one of many of your public spats.

It always got out of control, and someone always ended up with something broken, or even mutated, but you couldn't help it. His presence near you made your skin crawl and the hair on the back of your neck stand at attention. Every time he opened his mouth, you just wanted to slap him right across the face and make him shut his yap once and for all.

During Fifth year, he had suddenly realized that you were a girl and decided to make you another notch on his bed post. He always made sure everyone was paying attention when he asked you out loudly and obnoxiously, several times a week.

You never bothered to answer. Actions spoke louder than words. So a slap or a middle finger always made him cool down. For a while.

You could swear his eyes flash with hurt every time you rejected him, but yet again, you didn't dwell on it much. He wasn't worth your time. He still isn't.

After a horrible fight near the lake at the end of Fifth Year after your O.W.L.s, he didn't bother you again. Much.

There were the occasional rows here and there when he irked you constantly and you couldn't seem to get him out of your head.

Sixth Year was eventless. He barely spoke to you and you were thankful for that. That is until his father died. He had been sick for a while and his heart finally gave. You had never seen Potter look so devastated in your life and it broke your heart a little to see him like that.

Everyone looked at him differently, everyone treated him differently, everyone barely looked at him in the eye anymore.

It was a heart wrenching thing, to lose a parent, of course, but you didn't bother changing your attitude with him. You treated him like you always did, with neglect and apathy.

Seventh Year comes, and you're assigned the Head Girl position, the thing you've been yearning for since you became a Prefect in Fifth Year.

You're quite surprised to note that Potter is your fellow Head, but you don't point it out, for his friends are already teasing him enough for it.

He is a troublemaker and a Marauder, and a Marauder doesn't get to be Head Boy. But deep down, you know he deserves it. He has grown up since his father's death, almost matured, and when he sets his mind on something, he'll be the best. You know he is. You never admit it.

You still barely speak with him outside of Heads' meetings, but you get to know him a little better through the occasional chats you engage him in during meetings' breaks.

You find out you were right to envy him, and he isn't that exceptional boy he used to be anymore, but an exceptional _man _he's become.

One night, while finishing your homework, you fall asleep on the couch in the Common Room, but when you wake up, you're surprised to find yourself in _his_ bed. You jump up and look around for him, and you finally spot him sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag. You blink groggily and wonder how you've ended up here, until you realize that he must have brought you up to his room because he couldn't get you to yours.

As if feeling you're awake, his eyes blink open and he smiles wryly, and gets up, stretching his long limbs. You surprise yourself by unconsciously staring at the patch of skin that uncovers when he lifts his arms above his head.

You shake your head and look away from him, your treacherous cheeks flushing a beautiful red. He chuckles lightly, and you can't help but yearn to hear that sound again.

Feeling like your world is closing up on you, you get up and rub at your eyes, carelessly mumbling a thank you at him. He stops you by calling you by your first name, for the first time since you've known each other.

He looks awkward and his hand runs through his hair as his eyes wander at anything but your form. He finally decides to speak and you can't help but feel taken aback from what he says.

He tells you you're welcome, before he starts up a completely unrelated subject. He thanks you for something you've unintentionally done: you didn't treat him differently after his father's death and he's eternally grateful for it.

You nod faintly and quickly run out of there.

You avoid him from then on and barely spare a glance at him during meetings. You don't know why, you just know that it is essential to stay the hell away from him as much as you can.

And that's when it all tumbles out of control. It starts with an occasional glance from across the table during meals, a brush of his foot against yours under the table, the electric shock when his hand brushes yours during rounds.

Next thing you know, you're in his bed again, but this time he's lying next to you and not on the floor.

You haven't done anything though. You're not touching, you're not speaking, you're not kissing. You're simply lying there, watching each other.

You feel your heart tugging painfully when his eyes roam your face and his hand wounds through your red hair. He whispers something, his voice like velvet and it sends a chill down your spine. He tells you you're beautiful and you swallow thickly, your heart drumming painfully against your ribcage.

No one has ever told you that before, and a part of you is quite glad James was the first one to do so.

You vaguely notice how you've started referring to him as 'James'.

After that time, you start meeting up whenever possible, which was every single night. You still don't do anything but stare at each other, which you're grateful for.

You've never experienced anything like this before, something so deep yet so shallow at the same time, and it thrills you to no end.

A few weeks later, he surprises you when you are leaving the Library, and your heart immediately speeds up at the sight of him. Outside of his room, you've kept that same distant and apathetic exterior around him, and that's why you're surprised to see him approaching you.

He immediately starts talking, not bothering on a good afternoon. He was always one to jump straight to the point.

He starts off by saying he couldn't do this anymore, this thing between the two of you. He doesn't want you to get him wrong, he loves spending quiet time with you, but it's slowly driving him towards madness.

You frown and wonder if you're really that terrible.

He sees your troubled face and sighs deeply, running a hand across his face. That's not what he meant, he clears up, but you're still confused.

He starts babbling incoherently, and you barely pick up a few sentences about how he's slowly crumbling and losing himself. To you.

You stare dumbly, watching him talk and not understanding a word before you do something you're not sure you regret to shut him up.

You reach up and grab his collar, fusing your mouth to his. The kiss was heady and incredibly passionate and you've never experienced anything of the sort. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and your tongue licks his top one as his hands shove you up against the wall.

You're barely aware of the pain up your back when it comes in contact with the hard stone, and you reach up and run your fingers through his hair.

He mumbles something against your mouth, something about needing you too much and you respond by grinding yourself against him.

You don't know how you get there, but you're back in his room, but it's different this time. This time, you are touching, you are speaking –although it sounds more like moaning--, and you are kissing.

You're back against the wall, trapped under his talented mouth and hands. Your skirt bunched around your waist as he hooks a hand under your thigh and pulls you up against him, you moan.

Your breathing is shallow as he lowers you on the bed and his mouth explores every inch of your skin. You know you're not supposed to do this, but you can't really care when his body is so close, you could barely move, could barely breathe.

It was release, you think. Release of all the pent up hate and despise you harbored for him for years. But release for all the pent up love as well.

You can feel him inside of you and on top, his bare chest pressed up against yours, your mouths barely grazing, only nipping at each other occasionally, and you feel like your heart is about to explode in your chest.

His breathing mingles with yours, and you moan loudly when his fingers found your center and he rubs you until you come screaming his name.

The deafening silence is only broken by your harsh breathing as you lie side by side, watching each other again, his fingers tangled in your hair.

The moment has passed, but you're sure it'll come back soon enough.

Because that's what you do. You're Lily and James.

And you're in love.

-Fin-

**A/N: **My first story on here. Be gentle.


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